David Duffy - Last to Fold

A large, square windowless hall with three more doors, one straight ahead and one on each side. Light shone through four ragged holes in the one straight ahead. Below the holes was a body. Beside the body was another.

They lay backs toward me. The closest was dressed in black. The other had white hair. I put a finger to the neck of the man in black. Not cold, but no pulse. I pulled at the shoulder. He fell over backward, wide still eyes staring at the ceiling, the front of his black shirt covered in dark red. The late Ratko Risly, unless I missed my guess. The other body was breathing. I rolled him over softly.

Iakov! I found the light switch. His eyes were closed, his right shoulder was soaked in blood. I patted his face gently. The eyes opened.

“Iakov?”

Crack!

The bullet passed over my back. Another hole in the door, this one a few inches higher than the others.

I hit the door low and hard. It pulled away from hinges and latch, and I fell into the room with splintering wood, rolling fast until I banged into a wall. I pushed back one revolution and came up in a crouch. Eva Mulholland, naked on a bed, lined up another shot.

Crack!

Wide. I grabbed her wrist, and the gun fell on the sheets. She looked straight at me, but what she saw, if anything, was anyone’s guess. I picked up the gun and slapped her, not hard, but not gently either.

“Eva!”

She stared straight ahead.

“Turbo. Friend of your parents.”

More stare.

I passed a hand a few inches in front of her face.

No reaction.

“That Ratko outside?”

No response.

“You shoot him?”

Nothing.

I pushed her gently, and she fell backward on the pillows. Like Gina said, a model’s figure, inherited from her mother. Fine shoulders, small, round breasts, tucked waist, narrow hips, long, slender legs. Under other circumstances, she’d be beautiful to gaze upon, except the beauty was marred by ugly scars and discolored skin covering both thighs from knees to hips. Burns, or bad medical treatment. Circumstances, as well as decorum, vetoed closer examination. I pulled the sheet over her nakedness and ejected the clip from the automatic, a Glock 9 mm. The same one in the photograph? Four gone. Two at me, one in Iakov, one in Ratko? For whatever reason, that didn’t feel right. I put the gun in my pocket and went back to Iakov.

His eyes were still open. He blinked once as I knelt beside him.

“Turbo?” His voice was just above a whisper.

“It’s me. How bad are you hurt?”

“He who’s destined to hang won’t drown.”

I smiled. If his humor was intact, the rest of him couldn’t be too badly injured. I exhaled. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath.

“Who shot you?” I said.

“Don’t know. Didn’t see.”

“I’ll get help. You want an ambulance or Lachko?”

He closed his eyes for the better part of a minute before he said, “Lachko.”

I’d never known for sure how deep the split between them ran. Since I was part of the cause—the whole cause, in their eyes—I’d never asked, but it had to be serious if it took that long to choose the lesser of two evils when he had a bullet in the chest. At least the brain was functioning. That was a good sign.

“I’ll call him. The girl in the bedroom—she’s your granddaughter, isn’t she?”

He looked surprised. “Eva?”

“That’s right. She’s drugged. I’m going to get her help.”

He waved his good hand and closed his eyes, as if trying to think. “She’s Lachko’s child, Turbo,” he said after another minute. “He’ll take care of her.”

It was clear from my visit that afternoon, Lachko didn’t know about Polina. A good guess he didn’t know Eva was here either. Getting between them was a true fool’s errand, but I’d been hired to find the girl. I went back to the bedroom. Eva lay as I left her, sheet around her shoulders, eyes staring into space. King-sized bed, four-poster. Mahogany. Two bullet holes in the wall behind. They hadn’t missed by much. T-shirt and jeans tossed on the floor. A can of Diet Coke on the bedside table, half drunk. I sniffed the top. Smelled like Coke. Another door led to a bathroom-spa bigger than the bedroom. Whirlpool twice the size of the gold sofas, steam shower, sauna, two sinks, racks of multicolored towels.

Back in the hall, Iakov had worked himself up against the wall. He watched as I went through the dead man’s pockets. Keys, change, eight hundred twenty-four dollars, and a U.S. passport in the name of Alexander Goncharov. In the last pocket, a shiny new BlackBerry. The message light blinked. I pocketed the BlackBerry and replaced everything else.

“I want that,” Iakov said.

“What?”

“BlackBerry—I want it.”

“Okay, later.”

A rolling suitcase by the bed was packed full of men’s clothes, mostly worn, mostly black. The luggage tag read GONCHAROV with the Greene Street address. The used boarding pass indicated he’d just flown in from Moscow. Beside the suitcase was a messenger bag with a laptop inside. I put it to one side.

“That, too.”

Iakov had pulled himself to the open door. He was cataloging my every move. The caution of an old spymaster? More than that. Why should I be surprised?

“Stay still, Iakov. You’re losing blood. I’m calling Lachko now.”

“That computer is mine, Turbo.”

“Okay.”

I went out to the kitchen-dining area, where he couldn’t follow, and weighed the merits of my cell phone versus Ratko’s landline. Both would leave a trail, but going out to a pay phone would take too much time. I decided on the latter for the first call—to Brighton Beach. When a man’s voice answered I said, “Tell Lachko it’s Turbo.”

It didn’t take long before Lachko said, “Nothing in twenty years, twice in twelve hours. To what do I owe this misfortune?”

“I’m with Iakov. He’s okay, but he needs a hospital. He’s been shot.”

“Turbo, what the fuck are you talking about?”

I repeated myself.

“You fucking with me? Let me speak to him.”

Lachko didn’t know his father was in New York. I shouldn’t have been surprised by that either. I carried the phone back to the hall.

“I told Lachko you need help. He wants to hear you say it.”

“Listen to Turbo, Lachko,” Iakov said into the phone. “I’ll explain later.”

He handed it back. I went back through the door as Lachko wheezed, “Where the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing there?”

“Thirty-two Greene, between Grand and Canal, 6A. Belongs to Rislyakov, although here he goes by Goncharov. He’s here, too, but he’s dead.”

“What the fuck?!”

“I’m playing it straight, Lachko. Rislyakov was dead when I got here. He was shot, too, from the looks of it. I found him and Iakov and called you.”

I could hear him barking orders in Russian. I looked at my watch. I figured I had at least forty minutes before they got here, but I’d be gone in thirty to be sure.

Lachko said, “I thought we agreed—stay the fuck away from Rislyakov.”

“I didn’t know he would be here. Iakov neither.”

“Bullshit. What else is there?”

I hesitated. He was going to find out soon enough from Iakov. “Eva. Stoned silly. She might have shot Iakov, without knowing what she was doing. She tried to shoot me. I don’t think she shot Ratko.”

“Eva? What the hell? Turbo, I am personally going to—”

“Shut up, Lachko. You’re not going to do anything. I’m taking Eva to get help.”

“You stay right the fuck where you are. My men are on their way.”

“I’ll be gone by the time they get here. She can’t wait. Could be an overdose.”

“Turbo, do exactly as I fucking say.”